Third Time's The Charm (revised; 1/2)
by Dala1
Summary: I finally sat down and finished this thing. This part has already been posted, but there are a few minor changes and typos fixes :)
1. Part One

  
Disclaimer: Most everything in this story belongs to Marvel, so don't sue   
This is my story previously titled "Third Time's the Charm", or half of it anyway (my Notepad was being uncooperative, so I had to split it up). I'm reposting the whole thing because it reads better as a complete story, and because I've made a few minor changes to the original parts. Sequel to "What We Can't Have", it's a Rogue/Logan romance through and through, so if you're going to complain about how Logan loves Jean and Rogue belongs with Gambit, too bad. This is movieverse, and it's entirely separate from the comics in my mind :) Please review this, because I'm a greedy thing g Enjoy!  
  
  
Rogue sighed and pushed her vegetables around on her plate. Bobby was talking animatedly about his visit home over spring break. She'd stopped listening when his description of his uncle's new car exceeded two minutes.  
  
She'd just had difficulty concentrating since that morning on the roof. In class, in training, even merely among her friends---she found her attention wandering ceaselessly, as if her mind searched for something that wasn't there.  
  
*Won't ever be there*, she thought darkly. Logan had been very scarce for the past two weeks, taking off to Canada for most of them to supposedly visit an old friend. She didn't believe that for a second. And when he'd come back a few days ago, he hardly said a word to her. And he was . . . different somehow. Very quiet. Not as sarcastic; he'd even passed up more than one opportunity to make fun of Scott, and that certainly wasn't the Logan she knew.  
  
The Logan she knew, and . . . No! She set her jaw and forced the thoughts away from her. There would be *nothing* between them. There couldn't be. Sometimes she was even able to convince herself that she didn't want anything to happen; she wrote down his faults over and over again in her journal. Smokes, drives too fast, doesn't really like anyone, runs away when he's afraid and won't admit it . . . Sometimes that almost worked.  
  
And there were other times, late at night, when she would wake suddenly and imagine his hands on her, stroking her, loving her. His lips at her hair, her eyebrows, her nose, her mouth . . . she would shiver from the intensity of these visions, and this desire, and eventually drift back to sleep. Then the thoughts would enter her dreams . . .   
  
Rogue opened her eyes and blinked at the light. Bobby and the other kids were staring at her.  
  
"Are you alright?" asked Jubilee, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "You made a noise like you were in pain.  
  
Rogue cleared her throat and stood up too quickly, the blood rushing to her head, making her stumble as she stepped away from the bench. "I'm fine," she insisted, pushing her hair behind her ears with gloved fingers. "I just . . . haven't been sleeping well lately."  
  
"Perhaps I might be able to help," said a pleasant male voice, and Rogue jumped. The professor had wheeled silently up next to her, and he stood gazing at his pupil with obvious concern. "I think you'd better come to my office, Rogue."  
  
She hesitated. Of course Xavier wouldn't intrude on her thoughts, but neither could she hide them successfully. And she wasn't at all sure he would approve of this . . . infatuation.  
  
"Can I meet you there?" she asked, lowering her eyes and hating herself. She disliked lying, and knew how terrible at it she was. "I need to use the bathroom.  
  
"Of course," Xavier replied benevolently. "I shall wait for you."  
  
Feeling sick, Rogue hurried off the restroom, wondering just what the hell she was going to tell him.  
  
  
  
The punching bag was definitely not in good shape. After a few minutes of pummeling it, Logan's thoughts wandered and he'd let his claws slip out, promptly tearing the thing to pieces which smelled strongly of sweat.  
  
He growled and turned away, hoping they'd blame somebody else. Pacing the short length of the weight room, Logan clenched his fists and tried to slow his riotous heartbeat.  
  
*Damn* the girl. Damn her for making him feel this way, for twisting his head into a million different thoughts at once, for making his breath come short whenever she happened to dance across his vision. Life had been so much simpler before that morning, that ill-fated encounter, that . . .   
  
. . . memory which filled his mind with sweet peace, and his body with the fires of passion. That recollection which, even in the frozen wilderness of northern Canada, could still make his face feel the warm sunlight beaming down upon him, and his feet soak up the rich life of the garden's earth beneath them.  
  
He let out a yell and pierced the destroyed punching bag again.  
  
That was why Logan had gone back up north again, to escape the light breeze of summer here. To get away from the sight of her face.  
  
He had only succeeded in training that face to remain before his eyes when the real owner was miles away. He'd only found peace in an hour or so of restless sleep each night, after waking trembling and sweat-soaked from dreams in which men in white coats cut Rogue open. The only birdsong he encountered was alternately her soft sweet voice, imploring him to hold her closer, and her terrified screams as faceless phantoms pulled her away.  
  
Uttering a low moan, Logan crumpled to the ground. He'd thought he was fucked up before, but this . . .   
  
*Love means never having to say you're sorry*, he'd heard in a movie once. Well, that was a piece of shit. If he had the balls, he'd tell Rogue he was sorry, a thousand times over. Sorry he couldn't touch her and live, sorry for scratches he had left on her back, sorry that he couldn't save her from death in his dreams, sorry for not being able to love her as a normal man should . . .   
  
*Normal is one thing we both ain'*t, he thought bitterly. And then he wondered, if they had been just normal humans, and met through some predestined twist of fate . . . would it still hurt this much?  
  
  
  
"I understand you're having dreams."  
  
Rogue started and gazed at Professor Xavier with suspicion. Maybe he had been snooping around inside her head after all . . .   
  
"Don't be so startled," he said. "It's obvious, to look at you."  
  
She relaxed. Yes, there were dark circles under her eyes---she hadn't know they could form so fast---and she'd tried to cover them up this morning. But of course, the Professor was more observant that most people.  
  
He sighed and leaned back behind his desk, folding his hands in his lap. "I know you're troubled, Rogue. But I can't help you if you won't let me."  
  
"It's . . ." Rogue hesitated, unsure. "I don't know . . . what you'll think of me . . . if I tell you."  
  
Xavier smiled at her. "My dear child, I'm sure it's nothing to be ashamed of. I won't press you if you are unwilling, but don't you think I might be able to help?"  
  
She hadn't really considered this. Had there been some girl in his past, someone he couldn't have, whom he had wanted so badly she filled his whole being? The idea was strange, but certainly not implausible.   
  
"Yes, I've been having dreams," she said quickly, before she lost her nerve. "I've been dreaming about Logan, and being near him, and being . . . with him . . ."  
  
"Ah." It was clear Xavier understood what she meant, and when he didn't frown immediately, she felt better. "I see. You're attracted to Logan."  
  
"I . . . yes. But it's more than just an attraction, it's an obsession . . . and I wish it would go away and leave me in peace."  
  
He chuckled. "Our feelings do not often obey us, Rogue. As I'm sure you found." Xavier picked up a paperweight from his desk, a clear glass hemisphere, with a dark blue flower inside. He turned it over in his hands as he spoke. "You thought I would be very disapproving of this, didn't you?"  
  
"Yes. He *is* a great deal older . . ."  
  
The Professor nodded. "But don't think I write this off as an adolescent infatuation."  
She flinched inwardly, since she had indeed assumed this was what he would think. It had been something of a comfort, thinking someone else would say those words, and she wouldn't have to admit the more truthful ones to herself. "For all your youth, you are not so young as most teenagers. You have been through a great deal."  
  
Automatically she touched the white streak of her hair, and said dryly, "I remember."  
  
The man chuckled. "Yes, I suppose you would. Is that when the feelings started?"  
  
"Yes . . . no . . . I mean, I've felt something since before that, but the dreams started two weeks ago."  
  
*Dammit, how am I going to explain that?*  
  
But as she opened her mouth again, Xavier raised a hand. "You don't have to tell me. I know about it already."  
  
Rogue's eyes narrowed, wary once again.  
  
"Jean woke that morning, disturbed by a nearby concentration of mental energy," he explained. "She saw both you and Logan come down off the roof, and . . . drew conclusions."  
  
She nodded. That certainly made sense. It made her a little nervous that Jean and the professor had spent time discussing her, though.  
  
"I'm going to offer my advice," Xavier said, and she was almost certain she knew what that would be. "Talk to him."   
  
*Bingo*, thought Rogue resentfully. *What makes adults think that every problem can be solved by talking? We're talking now, and we haven't solved a thing.*  
  
However, she nodded and said, "I'll think about it."  
  
He frowned, not satisfied. "Don't dismiss me so quickly, Rogue. At least you'll be able to get this out in the open."  
  
"But how can I tell him how I feel when *I* don't even know how I feel?" she cried in a fit of exasperation.  
  
The professor spread his hands and looked at her . . . with daring? "Try me out first."  
  
"Fine," she snapped. "I feel like my skin is the glass of that paperweight, that I'm transparent, that he can see inside of me . . ." Trailing off, she finished in a broken tone. "And like the flower, I'm trapped inside. No matter how you run your hands over the surface, you can never touch the inside."  
  
Xavier said nothing for a long moment, while Rogue dropped her head between her knees and tried to steady her breathing. When she looked up, dry-eyed, he seemed surprised. "You don't cry for this."   
  
"I don't cry for anything," she replied sharply. "What does it accomplish?"  
  
He nodded and seemed to ignore her, once more fiddling with the paperweight. She sat in silence, watching the smooth motions of his hand. The sun reflected off the glass, casting prisms around the posh office---fireflies, she had called them as a child.  
  
Rogue reflected that no one here treated her as just a child, even though she was only seventeen. Except Logan, these past few days . . .   
  
Thoughts of him made her swallow, and she made herself meet the professor's eyes. "Can I go now?"  
  
"Yes," he said, voice soft. "I hope you'll consider what I've said."  
  
Rogue said, "I will," and left.  
  
And walking down the hallway, she resolved to do just that. The description she'd given the professor had actually been rather poetic . . .   
  
Her eyes cast down and her mind occupied, Rogue didn't see him, but when his should bumped hers, it sent a shock through her. They both stopped and stared.  
  
He was breathing heavily, drenched in cooling sweat, and wearing workout clothes. Dimly her thoughts registered that he'd come from the direction of the weight room, and from the looks of him, he'd been there all day.  
  
For that one, stopped-time moment, his eyes bored into hers and, being caught off-guard, he didn't have time to hide his feeling like he always did. He felt both joy and pain at meeting her, fear and desire, but just now the joy came alone, and the desire warmed his core.  
  
Then, as always, the pain clouded his vision and fear froze his heart. His features hardened, smoothed, and Rogue felt despair tear at her new-won resolve. How had she ever thought he could feel something towards her? She was a child, a nice distraction, but a child nonetheless. He didn't even seem happy to see her.  
  
But she, too, could pretend, and she forced her lips into a smile that unknowingly sent a dagger into his soul. It was a quick smile, a casual offering to a friend.  
  
"Hello, Logan," Rogue said, and though she felt cold inside, she made her voice warm.  
  
"Rogue," he said in return, and nodded. "It's a . . . nice day today." *Fucking small talk. I hate people who do this. I've never needed to before . . .*  
  
She nodded. He saw a muscle in her jaw twitch, and knew she was biting the inside of her cheek. He read it as her wanting to get away from him, to have nothing to do with such a lecherous, hairy old man. His eyes dropped, and he hurried away.  
  
Rogue felt grateful for the wall at her back, because she fell against it then. She stood in silence for a little while, watching the mutants walk by and ignoring the strange looks they gave her.  
  
  
  
By the time he reached his room, Logan was fighting mad. Angry at Rogue for being entirely too young and lovely, angry at himself for these feelings he shouldn't be having, angry that he didn't even have the courage to talk to her about something less banal than the fucking weather.  
  
He threw himself down on the bed and growled softly. What he wanted to do most was tear a few holes in this wall. Then he wanted to follow Rogue down the hall, drag her back to her room, and make love to her for a long, long time.  
  
What he would do, instead, was sleep.  
  
There are three kinds of sleep. The first is light and easily disturbed, the sort of sleep you fall into when watching a boring movie. Then there's a steady, even slumber, the kind most people experience at night, where your brain is free to delve into the world of dreams, and your arms are wrapped contentedly around someone warm and soft. If he had ever experienced that type of sleep, he couldn't remember it.  
  
And lastly, there is a sleep of utter depth. It is one breath away from comatose and two away from dead, and it is what you seek when you want to be at peace, but it offers no real rest and when you wake, you only feel more exhausted. It isn't really sleep at all, it is oblivion, but sometimes that's better.  
  
Hands shaking, eyes closed, he reached over to his nightstand, pulled a bottle out the bottom drawer. It was unlabeled, nondescript. A woman had given it to him in Canada, a woman he'd met in a bar who smelled like cheap beer and sex. She had folded it into his palm, told him he needed it more than she did. His brain fuzzed over by alcohol and sorrow, he'd thought nothing of it when she made him recite a rhyme over and over until he had it memorized.  
  
*One will make you start to dance, two will make you rave  
Three will send you deep asleep, but four will send you to the grave*  
  
He opened the bottle and poured four of the little reddish pills into his hand, as he had done every night since then. And also as he had done every night, he swallowed the first three quickly and placed the fourth on his tongue. He let his mind play with the thought until he could bear it no longer, and he spit the fourth pill back into the bottle, a cloying sweet taste in his mouth from its powdered surface.  
  
Then Logan slept, and the bottle dropped from his hand to the floor, rolling under the bed.  
  
  
  
There was a light knock on the door.  
  
There was a thunderous cacophony in Logan's head.  
  
He groaned and lifted the pillow off his head. Bleary-eyed, he shuffled to the door and opened it a crack. "Whudduwant."  
  
Jean tried not to make a face at his breath. "It's almost noon, Logan," she admonished.  
  
He opened the door a bit wider, and yawned. "Point being?"  
  
She pursed her lips. Whatever was going on between him and Rogue, neither of them was benefiting. Not for the first time, she wished she'd had the courage to follow after either one the minute they'd left the roof that morning.  
  
"I just wanted to remind you that you have a mandatory physical this afternoon."  
  
Logan grinned and offered a slow wink. "You gonna be doin' the examining?" Even though there wasn't anything behind his flirting, it made her smile. And it really irritated old One Eye, which was reason enough to keep doing it.  
  
"No, you devil," Jean said with a chuckle. "I'm just going to have one of the apprentices look you over and run some tests. Standard stuff. They're required from everyone annually, even the professor.  
  
Picturing Charles Xavier in a hospital gown, Logan made a face.  
  
"Since you're awake now," Jean continued, "you might as well come and have some breakfast with me. Or rather, lunch," she said, tapping her watch and giving him a Look.  
  
He blinked a few times, trying to get his vision steady. "Give me fifteen minutes, darlin'."  
  
  
  
At lunchtime, Rogue decided she wasn't hungry. She was the first at the door when the bell rang, trying to avoid Kitty, who was also in her class. All she and the rest of the kids would do was ask questions Rogue couldn't, or wouldn't, answer.  
  
Not sure where she was going, Rogue only knew that she wanted to get away from the mass of people for a while. So she considered the courtyard, but chose the academy's outer boundaries instead, where there was a lake at the edge of the wood.  
  
She dropped her books and the lake's edge and sank to her feet, pulling off her boots and socks. Early June, it was just starting to get warm enough for swimming.  
  
*Not that I could go swimming*, she thought. I'd probably kill somebody.  
  
But there was no one here now, and in any case only her feet were bare. She winced at the chill of the water, but felt soothed by its gentle caress.  
  
"Nice little spot, isn't it?"  
  
Rogue craned her neck back to behold Scott, smiling down at her. "Mind if I join you?"  
  
She shrugged and turned back around. "It's a free country."  
  
"For now, at least," he replied cheerfully as he pried off his shoes and settled down beside her. "Ah, that's nice," he sighed, sliding his feet into the water a foot or so away from hers.   
  
She had no idea what he was doing out here. Did he want to talk?  
  
Apparently not, because he didn't say a word for quite awhile, only gazed out at the shining surface of the lake. Or at least that's where his head was pointed; the ruby quartz glasses pretty much hid his eyes.  
  
"Do you ever feel like just taking those off?" she asked suddenly, and felt stupid. Of course he didn't. He was no idiot, and he had probably hurt people with those eyes in the past, just as she had with her skin.  
  
But he nodded solemnly and said, "Yes. Every now and then I think that maybe, just maybe, it's gone away, or I've gotten control of it, and I have to sit on my hands to keep from tearing this damned thing off."  
  
"I feel that way too, sometimes," she said softly, haltingly. "As if I could touch someone, if only I could believe that it would do them no harm. *Really* believe it. And then it would magically go away, and I could touch people."  
  
It occurred to her for the first time that Scott was closest to her in terms of his affliction---abilities, she corrected herself automatically. Here, they were taught not to think of their mutations negatively. *But for some people, like me, that's pretty much impossible.*  
  
He seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "I know you hate it, but you can also do amazing things with your power. I mean, in a fight, all you'd have to do is lay your hand over your enemy's."  
  
"Somehow, that doesn't really make it worth everything else," she said, a little more harshly than she intended.  
  
"You're right," Scott said, and sighed. "Of course you're right. I don't think there's a single mutant who hasn't wished to be normal. Especially ones like you and me, because our abilities affect the way we deal with people."  
  
She knew he was being kind and trying to help, but Rogue was angry at a lot of things, and here was a rare chance to express it. "Easy for you to say. You can touch your girlfriend."  
  
"And Logan knows what color your eyes are," he shot back.  
  
She stared at him. "You . . . know about that?" Her voice was barely a whisper.  
  
Scott nodded. "Jean told me, and . . ."  
  
Furiously, Rogue pulled her feet underneath her and started to rise. "It's great that we're such a hot gossip item!"  
  
He grabbed her arm and implored her to stay. "I didn't mean to made you angry, Rogue. And trust me, not everyone knows. I can't help it if I have a telepathic girlfriend, can I?"  
  
His tone was joking, and his half-smile apologetic, so she settled back down again. "What do you think, Scott?"  
  
"What do I think?" He paused, considering. "That's a loaded question. I don't really like Logan, I admit, but oddly enough . . . I trust him. With my life, I think. He's been through more than anyone deserves, and despite it, has come out a pretty good man."  
  
"That's not what I meant."  
  
"Of course it's not. You meant what do I think of you and Logan. And I'll tell you this, Rogue. I've been in love long enough to know that it's not something you let go of, once it's found you."  
  
She drew her knees up to her chin. "Do you think he could ever love me?"  
  
Scott put one arm around her. "I think he'd have to try pretty hard to not love you, Rogue."  
  
"I bet your eyes are blue," she murmured. He laughed.  
  
  
  
Jean couldn't believe these test results. Was he mad? The chemical he was using was strong enough to kill a normal man; the fact that traces of it were in his bloodstream, despite the fact that his healing abilities should have flushed them out, only added to her incredulity.  
  
Fuming, she tried to cool her temper. She *liked* Logan---she didn't want to build a house by the sea and pop out ten of his kids, but dammit, she certainly didn't want to see him drug himself to death!  
  
Taking a deep, steady breath, Jean shoved the door to the examining room open.  
  
He was buttoning his shirt, and he didn't look up as she came in. "You're angry with me."  
  
"Yes, I am," she said with a tone of steel. "Do you have any idea what sort of drug you're taking?"  
  
Logan glanced up sharply at that. "You . . . how?"  
  
"Because it's become part of your system! You're addicted to it and you don't even know what it is, do you?"  
  
"No," he said softly, meeting her gaze with hollow eyes. "I don't really care."  
  
Jean sighed and rubbed a hand across her forehead. "I know you're having a bad time with Rogue," she said more gently, sitting down next to him. "But why the drug?"  
  
"It . . . it helps me sleep." He frowned at her. "How do you know about . . . about my problems, anyway?" Emphasizing the word 'my' slightly, he didn't want her to blame Rogue for the delusions of a man who should know better.  
  
Jean tapped her head. "You forget, Logan, you live down the hall from a telepath. And both of you think rather loudly."  
  
"So I suppose Chuck knows about it too."  
  
"Yes," she replied, blushing a little. "I told him, actually." Now he was really looking at her with disapproval. "I thought either you or she would do something harmful to each other, or to yourselves! And you've gone and proven me right."  
  
He growled and looked pointedly at the wall. "Not your business."  
  
"Your health is my business, Logan, and so is hers. Don't be angry with me for trying to help you." She hesitated, not knowing how he would take her next statement. "And if you ever want to talk, I'll be willing to help with that, if I can."  
  
"You can't," he said harshly. "So don't even try."  
  
"Alright," Jean said, raising her hands in defeat. "Only, Logan, please . . ." She laid her hand over his and squeezed gently. "Throw whatever you've been taking away. I won't mention it to anyone, if you just promise to stop."  
  
Logan sighed. "Alright. I'll dump 'em down the toilet tonight, I promise."  
  
She smiled and got up to leave. "Thank you."  
  
He spoke when she was halfway out the door, in a soft, broken whisper such as she'd never heard him use. "Jeannie?"  
  
Jean turned, and swallowed at the pain in his eyes. "I only take them . . . to forget."  
  
"I know," she said, her own voice thick. "I know, Logan. Go home and try to rest. It'll be alright."  
  
As she left him, she cursed herself for lying. Optimism and hope were all well and good . . . but how could anything but pain come from this relationship?   
  
  
  
*I will not dream tonight. I will not dream tonight.*  
  
Rogue silently chanted the words that had been her nightly mantra ever since the roof. All she had to do was not think of him, not the least bit, and she would be safe from the dreams. Or she could have strange dreams that made no sense, with purple cats and teakettles that talked, dreams that were the products of an idle brain.  
  
Her dreams of Logan were the fantasies of a mind, and a body, that knew exactly what it wanted.  
  
*No! Mustn't think of him!*   
  
She sighed and took up her mental chant again.At least they had finally given her a room of her own; she didn't want to think about how the girls would react to her dreams---*Stop thinking about it!*  
  
  
  
For a few minutes, Logan sat on his bed and stared at the little bottle. He considered ignoring Jean's advice and his promise to discard them.   
  
But no, she would know; even if she didn't do any more tests on him, she would know, somehow, and then she'd tell the professor, and Logan would have to leave this place, because he shouldn't be around a little girl he lusted for.   
  
He stepped into the bathroom and dumped the lot of the pills into the toilet bowl with a flourish. As they settled to the bottom, his heart constricted, and he wanted to pull them out again. Just three . . . just for tonight, just one last time . . .   
  
*No!* He slammed the lid down and flushed it, ignoring the shaking of his hands. They always shook at night; in anticipation of the pills or in dread of them, he didn't know.  
  
Well, he still had a 6-pack and a bottle of whiskey. Maybe he'd be able to drink himself to sleep.  
  
  
  
Rogue did dream of him. She dreamt, as she had so often, of his body over hers, his hands roaming everywhere, but before it could progress further the image vanished, replaced by a simple, impossibly clear view of her own room.  
  
Caught between waking and sleeping, Rogue got out of bed, moving stiffly.  
  
He was calling to her, his pain a part of her own. And in the dream, she was allowed to go to him. In the dream, everything was safe, and she could take him in her arms and comfort him.   
  
In the dream, she walked out of her room and down the hall to Logan's, not realizing that her sleeping body was doing the same.  
  
The vision of the hallway was beginning to blur, the edges soft like an old photograph. The sharp colors were now in black and white, giving the dark area an eerie cast, but still she pressed on. He needed her, and the parts of him that were inside her could do nothing but obey.  
  
Slowly, slowly, moving as if through syrup, Rogue pushed aside the heavy air and opened his door. She was not surprised to find it unlocked; a man with such heightened senses and powerful weapons hardly needed a simple lock to deter those who would harm.  
  
And she came not to harm, but to heal.  
  
The dream-Rogue had lost vision when she entered his room, but she was not afraid, because she could feel him there and if he was there, everything would be alright.  
  
"What do you want?" That voice, low and menacing as it was, was unmistakably his, and as she heard Rogue came back to herself, and blinked.  
  
The curtains were drawn, the lights off---she could barely see him seated in an armchair in the corner. As her senses recovered, she could smell the alcohol.  
  
But surely he wasn't drunk. How could be drunk when she'd come to him, alone, at night, wanting his caresses? For she knew that was why she was here, that her purpose was to tell him simply that she loved him, and wanted him, and then he would embrace her and touch her, even if it couldn't be as intimate as it was in her dreams. They would find some way to manage. The thought that he might not love her back, that he might refuse her, did not cross her mind. She wouldn't let it.  
  
"It's Rogue," she whispered, peering into the darkness.  
  
"I know," he barked. "What do you want?"  
  
"I . . ." She paused, confused. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to sweep her into his arms and tell her that all her fears were baseless, that she was beautiful and desirable and he wanted her.  
  
He was not supposed to be brusque, and he was *not* supposed to be drunk. All of her instincts screamed at her to apologize for intruding, to turn around and walk out of the door as fast as she could, but inside her head he was still crying, grieving, and she couldn't leave now.  
  
"I want to talk to you, Logan," she said, proud of how firm her voice was. She stepped further into the room, closed the door, and turned on the light.  
  
He sat perfectly still. There were empty bottles around him---three, four, five---and a sixth in his hand.  
  
  
"Don't want to talk." His voice was still curt. "Get out, please."  
  
She swallowed down a lump in her throat. "No, I---we need to talk. I've had these feelings for you, Logan, and---"  
  
"I said." Now his tone was very low and very soft. "Get. Out."  
  
Again she felt like fleeing, running away from this broken and dangerous man, but she couldn't stop herself from trying. "Please, Logan, I think I'm in lo---"  
  
He jumped out of the chair and pinned her to the wall, his claws shooting out on either side of her. In his drunken state, Logan only knew that if she said those words aloud, then he wouldn't be able to keep from saying them back, and he couldn't do that. He couldn't put her in a situation that would only cause her pain.  
  
And somewhere in the back of his fogged brain, he wanted to weep himself when he saw tears spring to her eyes. She was just a girl, she needed to be handled more gently than this . . . but he was so afraid that if he tried gentleness on her, he wouldn't be able to do it. To convince her that she didn't want him.  
  
So he pressed against her, letting a snarl take over his face. He ignored the heat which rose in his body at being so near to hers. "I don't want you, kid. I don't want you in my room, and I don't want you in my life. Stay the hell out of my way!"  
  
To his utter surprise, Rogue's tears hardened into rage, and she spat into his face. "Let go of me, you bastard!" she hissed. He was so surprised that when she shoved him, he fell to the floor.   
  
She stalked to the door and whirled around, shaking with anger. "You're not worth this. You aren't worth a damned second of my time!" And she left, slamming the door behind her.  
  
Logan recovered from his shock at about the same time the alcohol wore off. *Holy shit, what have I done?* He could still smell the spicy scent of her anger, but now that he was sober, her fear assaulted him as well.   
  
*I frightened her, I shamed her, I lied to her, I hurt her . . . and I've probably ruined her for life.*  
  
"It wasn't broken, and I tried to fix it," he whispered. "I just threw away the only touch of perfection I've ever known . . . how can I ever look her in the face again? How can I stay here, knowing how I've treated her?"  
  
As quickly as it touched him, he buried the despair deep within the emotional layers he'd built up over the years. There was a simple decision he could make that, while it wouldn't fix the problem, at least wouldn't make it worse.  
  
He dragged a bag out from under his bed and began throwing things in it. Sure, they could call him a coward for leaving. But they could also screw themselves. He wasn't going to cause her anymore pain than he already had.  
  
Before he strode through the door, Logan hesitated. Surely he could leave a note or something for her?  
  
*Better than a note*, he thought suddenly, removing the dogtags from his neck and placing them gently on the desk.  
  
*You've got a part of me now, kid. Hope they protect you better than I could.*  
  
For a long time after she got back to her room, Rogue could only lie on her bed and stare at the ceiling.   
  
Then the thoughts came. *Why the hell did I go in there tonight? What made me think I could ever be attracted to such a prick? Why should I care if he leaves tonight and I never see him again?  
Why . . . oh god, why doesn't he want me?*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Part Two

Second half of "Fairy Tale, X-Men Style". Same disclaimer applies. If you've read this far, I luff you! Please keep going and give me an informative (Read: constructive criticism and/or goddess worship) review!  
  
  
  
When three months passed without a word, Rogue stopped giving the mailbox dirty looks.  
  
When six months passed, people noticed that she smiled more often, and even flirted with some of her male friends.  
  
When nine months passed, she let Bobby take her out on a date now and then, though they did nothing beyond holding hands.  
  
Finally a year passed, and she had turned eighteen a few months ago, but she still woke up every few weeks from dreams of him. She'd thought no one noticed, but one night at a fancy French restaurant, Bobby had taken her hand and told her that they shouldn't see each other anymore. She had been surprised and asked him why, and he said, "I'm here with you, Rogue, but I'm on the outside, and he'll always be on the inside." And she had nodded, because it was the truth, and they were better friends for the extra time spent together.  
  
Of course, she had more to do than flirt with Bobby and weep over Logan. She graduated that spring, but chose to stay and be a full member of the X-Men rather than go away to college. It had been a long, forcefully civil discussion with Xavier, but he had relented, and had her studying under some of the teachers at the Academy. So between schoolwork and various missions, she was kept quite busy.   
  
Only once had anyone asked her about the night he left. Jean had come to her room while Rogue was recuperating from a mission, one in which she'd killed a woman and permanently absorbed her considerable strength and flying ability. The shock of it, the fact that she had taken someone's life from them, had her in a tight grip and she was grateful for the company of the older woman.  
  
  
*"I found these in his room," Jean said, a chain dangling from her fingers. "Thought you might want them."  
  
Rogue had to stop herself from snatching them away. "Oh?" she said, quite coolly. "Don't know what I'll do with them, but thanks." She held out her hand, and her fingers tightened convulsively around the cold, well-worn metal. She stroked the etched letters lightly, finally noticing that Jean was watching her.  
  
Their eyes met, and the other woman smiled. "He left you the only remainder of his past."  
  
Rogue shrugged, her gaze dropping. "Maybe they're not all that important."  
  
"Do you want to talk about what happened that night?"  
  
"No."  
  
Jean sighed. "Alright."*  
  
  
And no one had brought it up since. Rogue kept the tags in a drawer during the day and under her pillow when she slept.  
  
It was her theory that everyone pitied her; the poor naïve little girl who'd lost her heart to an uncaring older man. But in truth, Rogue knew that she had driven him away. If she'd had any idea what would happen, she would have said nothing to him, and merely enjoyed his presence. It would hurt to not be able to have him, but no worse than to not have him near her at all . . . he was like a drug. The longer she was around him, the more she needed him; when she had given him up, the need lessened with time, but every now and then it would strike her with all the force it had a year ago.  
  
She had not stopped loving him, but she had given up on ever having him in her life again.   
  
The call came later that same month, just a year after he'd left.  
  
Rogue was in the professor's office, waiting for him to get her some papers on the French Revolution. When the phone rang, she only tilted her chair back in the way that so annoyed Xavier and let the machine pick it up.  
  
"Hey Professor X, pick up, please. Jean? Scott? Ororo? Somebody!"  
  
The chair came crashing back down on all four legs. That voice . . . ragged and rough, but oh so familiar . . . she let the feeling wash over her as he talked, and was surprised to have such a vivid mental picture of him, as though she'd only seen him yesterday . . .  
  
"Listen, I know I left without sayin' anything, but I'm in trouble here---"  
  
*Should I pick up? Should I call for the professor?*  
  
"--dammit, pick up the phone, Chuck!"  
  
She picked it up and said, "Hello."  
  
There was a pause at the other end. He recognized her voice. Of course he did. He'd never mistake it for any other.  
  
"Rogue."  
  
"Yes, Logan," she said softly. "It's me. What's wrong?"  
  
"I---there's been some people chasing me, for a few weeks now. I'd thought I lost them, but I think they're very close, and I can't---" He broke off.  
  
"It's alright," she said, wondering at the utter calm of her voice. "Tell me where you are, Logan."  
  
"I'm in Kingston. At some truck stop---listen, Rogue, I need help. Ask Xavier to get the team together and bring the jet."  
  
She felt a flare of anger. "I'm part of the team, too, Logan. Of course I'll tell them."  
  
"Are you, now?" His voice was hesitant. "Rogue---I just want to say I'm sorry. For what I put you through."  
  
"I'm really quite fine, Logan," she said.   
  
"No, you aren't," he said flatly. "Because if I'm not, you certainly aren't."  
  
Rogue bit her lip. "I don't have time to argue with you now, Logan!"  
  
"Then don't," he said placidly. "But you're right, we haven't got the time."  
  
She craned her neck, listening to distinctive wheels outside the door. "There's the professor now, Logan. Do you want to talk to him?"  
  
"Yes, put him on."  
  
Xavier was surprised to see Rogue on his phone, but when she handed it to him wordlessly he understood. So this day had come at last. It was inevitable; their destinies were twined, poor souls. He only hoped these people Logan spoke of would hold off until his team got there.  
  
As he was talking to Logan, he noticed Rogue nervously tapping her foot and twirling the white streak of hair around her finger.   
  
"Perhaps it's best you don't come on this mission," he said when he had hung up.   
  
She said bolt upright. "No! I mean, please, Professor Xavier---"  
  
"Listen to me for a moment, Rogue," he said, and she fell silent at his tone. "I'm only concerned for the both of you. You haven't seen Logan in a year . . . do you really want that first meeting to take place in a possible combat situation?"  
  
He had a point there. Rogues crossed her arms over her chest. "But you're not forbidding me to go?"  
  
"No, I'm not. I only wish you to sit in here and think about it, while I go use Cerebro to locate Logan and his attackers."  
  
She sighed. "Fair enough." He left her, and she threw her head back in the chair and closed her eyes.  
  
To see him again . . . the thought made her quiver, but then she thought of the last time she'd seen him. How would it be any different? She was still a child to him, and he wouldn't want her now any more than he had then.  
  
*Still*, she resolved, *I need to see him. To convince myself that I really **don't** need to see him.*  
  
*But you do . . . you know you do . . .* whispered a small, traitorous voice in her head, and she silenced it quickly.  
  
Of course, the last time she'd gone to help him, it had only led to his leaving . . .   
  
Rogue pressed her hands to her temples. Would she be able to handle this? Or was she still that same girl who'd gone to his room in the middle of the night, wanting to be loved and being scorned instead?  
  
Oh no, time had not healed the memory of those words. They could still hurt, and probably so could he.  
  
And she was angry, and she grabbed onto that anger like a life preserve. How dare he think that he could enter her life again and expect to find her unchanged? She *had* changed; she was a woman now, and though she would be civil, she would not forgive him for what he'd done that night.  
  
Because she had wanted no one else since him. Because she was his for life, and that was not something you just forgave.  
  
  
  
After Logan hung up the payphone, he leaned against the wall and tried to collect his bearings. Hearing her voice after all this time . . . it had been a shock. And she'd sounded so grown-up. Full-fledged X-Man and all. He shook his head. *My girl doesn't do things halfway.*  
  
He felt a chill chase down his spine. They were close, whoever the hell they were.  
  
Sighing, Logan walked cautiously outside to his bike---Cyke's, really, but after a year he considered it his by default. He didn't know why he couldn't shake these people. It was usually just one man in a nice dark suit, trying his best to be sneaky. They never gave any clues as to what they wanted, and never came close enough for him to smell any trace of emotion or purpose. Logan had gone to Georgia a month ago, relieved when no one followed, but the heat soon drove him back up north. He was definitely a cold-weather animal. And he'd been here in Kingston for four days, moving from hotel to hotel; despite it all, his well-dressed friends had shown up again yesterday, three of them at once.  
  
Breathing shallowly, he contemplated taking one---just one, just to calm his nerves. But no, there were only a few left, and Esmerelda would not be pleased if he came back so soon.  
  
*They're only for sleeping,* he told himself fiercely.  
  
He pressed down on the throttle and the engine thundered to life.  
  
He didn't notice the black Lincoln which pulled out of the parking lot just before he did, or that it took the same road he did. It was around the corner before he saw it, and so he didn't see it make a U-turn on the narrow road, and he couldn't tell if the squealing of tires was his own or the Lincoln's . . .   
  
And the next thing he knew was the cold of the snow against his cheek, and the warmth of his blood staining it scarlet.  
  
*Déjà vu,* Logan thought grimly. Panic had gripped him for a moment: he thought to look up, to see his old camper at the top of the hill, Rogue frightened and trapped inside . . .   
  
But no, he'd crashed his bike into that damned car. And someone up there was probably hurt, or worse.  
  
Groaning, Logan heaved himself up out of the snow-bank. Through the red haze, he waited patiently for the pain to subside and the blood to cease flowing.  
  
He touched his forehead gingerly, feeling the ragged gash and fighting nausea.  
  
Inexplicably, he was still bleeding, and the soreness of his muscles would not go away . . .  
  
His claws popped out with a snikt that was deafening in the pastoral silence.  
  
Two men---in those damnable suits!---appeared at the top of the hill.  
  
As Logan dropped to the ground and out of consciousness, he reflected that this time there was no Cyclops and Storm to save him. But there was no stink of Sabretooth, either, so that was a plus . . .  
  
And then everything was nothing at all.  
  
  
  
Light.  
  
For a moment he thought he was dead, that all those tales of people seeing a bright light after death were true. Should he go toward it, or turn and run? Which view of the afterlife was true; where would he go now?  
  
Then the light receded, and he breathed a sigh of relief. *Breath. So I'm not dead. Okay.*  
  
At the moment, though, Logan wasn't so sure that was a good thing. His body screamed with aches, and he was held down by leather and metal contraptions.  
  
Extra care had been taken with his wrists, he discovered as his claws popped out. They were secured tightly, facing down, on the edges of the steel table.  
  
"Ah yes," came a low, educated voice, "those magnificent blades."  
  
"Come any closer, bub, and I'll show you just how magnificent they can be," Logan growled.  
  
"I'm sure you would," said the voice calmly. "Fortunately for myself, I suspect you're not feeling quite up to the job."  
  
Not a sentiment Logan was prepared to argue with. He couldn't remember ever feeling this bad, for this long.  
  
A man stepped out of the shadows; dressed as well as the Suits, but not one Logan recognized. The man was fairly tall, pale, and thin. He looked about thirty-five, but his receding hairline made him appear older. He pushed a pair of wire-rimmed glasses up on his hawkish nose.  
  
Logan had to suppress a snort. He'd been pursued and captured by this geek? *I must be losing my edge.*  
  
The man spoke again, gazing dispassionately down at Logan. "You must be wondering what I want with you." Logan was silent, obstinate, but it didn't seem to faze the guy. "My name is Peter Riley, and I've captured you for a very simple reason. You see, I have desired something all my life, wanted it so badly that I would give countless years off my life to be able to attain it."  
  
"A swift kick in the nuts?" Logan inquired.  
  
Riley smiled. "No, my dear man, no. I want to be a mutant."  
  
Logan blinked. That was a bit of a surprise. Most mutants he'd encountered would have given anything in their power to become normal, yet here was a normal---relatively, anyway---human who wanted to be a mutant. The world was a strange place.  
  
"How am I supposed to help you with that?" he asked, genuinely curious despite the danger he could smell emanating off the man.  
  
Riley drew a chair up and made himself comfortable, looking for all the world like a friend settling down for a bedside chat with an invalid. "I've been following Charles Xavier's operation for years, but I've not yet been able to come into contact with one of his mutants. They're a cliquey bunch, you know, and most of the students who left the nest were not suitable to my purposes, so they were useless to track. But you . . . you I believe we can work with." Turning to a tray Logan could only see out of the corner of his eye, Riley picked up a hypodermic needle containing a pinkish liquid. "And I'm sure you've figured out by now that we used the woman 'Esmerelda' as a connection, that the drugs she has been feeding you over the past year are ones I developed myself.  
  
"They wear down your remarkable immune system, so that your healing factor is virtually useless and you're more susceptible to torture."  
  
He gazed at the pale serum contemplatively. "First, you're going to tell us everything you can remember about the process by which you acquired your adamantium skeleton. Then," Riley continued, leaning over Logan, who couldn't flinch away, "we're going to open you up and see for ourselves how it was done."  
  
And as the needle pricked into his arm, Logan was afraid in a way he hadn't felt for a long, long time.  
  
  
  
The X-Men arrived at Riley's lab in Kingston, Canada about an hour later.  
  
"It looks respectable enough," Storm remarked, running a critical eye over the building's surface from their position some hundred yards off.  
  
Rogue looked up at the impressively fortress-like building, and shivered. Something about this place touched her deep, and she didn't like the feeling. "It's not," she whispered.  
  
The others looked at her sharply, but said nothing. "Jean, can you get a psychic connection with Logan?" Scott asked.  
  
The woman pressed her fingertips to her temples. "I'll try."  
  
*Logan, can you hear me? It's Jean; we're here, you'll soon be safe---*  
  
Scott reached out a steadying hand as she cried out and swayed. "He's in terrible pain," Jean whispered, opening her eyes. "We have to hurry, they're inside his mind . . ."  
  
Feeling her jaw clench, Rogue said firmly, "Well, what are we waiting for? There's only two guards outside; let's go!" She took to the air, hurrying to the place where Logan was being kept.  
  
*Whatever has happened between us---**because** of what has happened between us, I couldn't stand to see him in pain,* she thought despairingly.  
  
  
  
Pain hissed through Logan's head.  
  
He bit back a yell as the hot poker was drawn back from his skin. His shirt was torn open, and several deep burns were etched onto the skin of his chest.  
  
"What else can you tell me?"  
  
Dammit, that voice! It wouldn't go away! Even the torture wouldn't be so bad, if Riley would just shut the hell up!  
  
The drugs they had pumped into his system made his eyes difficult to focus, and they streamed as he blinked, trying to see the bespectacled figure hovering over him. Logan could taste Riley's frustration. *Maybe it's a good thing I don't know more about the butchers who did this to me,* he thought dully. *I wouldn't put such knowledge into the hands of a madman, torture or no.*  
  
"Go . . . fuck . . . yourself," Logan managed to grit out between his teeth. One was broken, if he wasn't mistaken.  
  
Riley began to laugh, the high-pitched sound continuing for several minutes. It was this, really, that terrified Logan beyond the physical pain, which was considerable. The man was truly insane, and desperate.  
  
"Try this slice," Riley said, still giggling, "I made it special just for you."  
  
He felt the needle enter his vein, distantly. The effect of this new medicine took effect almost immediately as it entered his bloodstream, and Logan couldn't even scream as his body was racked by uncontrollable shaking. He tasted blood in his mouth, and knew that he'd bit his tongue.  
  
When the convulsions subsided a few moments later, he felt as though his brain had detached from his body, and fancied that he could see himself lying on the medical table: battered, bloodied, and about to be truly broken.  
  
"Who took the x-rays of your skeleton, Logan?" Riley's voice was calm now.  
  
"Jean." Logan's reply was flat, emotionless, dead.  
  
"Jean who?"  
  
"Jean Grey."  
  
"Does she work for Charles Xavier?"  
  
"Yes. Saw my memories."  
  
Riley paused, surprised and pleased. He hadn't known that the truth serum would allow the patient to formulate its own comments, not just answer questions.  
  
"Who else knows about you---about the process being unnatural, I mean?"  
  
"The professor. The X-Men. Rogue . . ." And his heart rate suddenly leapt. Riley frowned, studying the brain-wave patterns.  
  
"Who is this Rogue?" he asked.  
  
"Mine," Logan said, and beyond the detached coolness of his voice was a touch of fierce protectiveness, the air of a hunter over his mate.  
  
"It's alright, no one will take her from you," Riley soothed. "Tell me about her." Logan's reaction to the mere mention of her name was interesting, and he made a note of it on his legal pad.  
  
"Beautiful. Deadly. Too young. Hurt me. I hurt her. Left."  
  
"I see," Riley murmured.   
  
"She . . . owns pieces of me, inside her head. Knows my soul."  
  
The other man thought for a moment. This girl could be useful. Even under the truth serum, which was powerful enough to render a man senseless, Logan was resisting. Perhaps if he found this Rogue, it would be easier to persuade the mutant to give something away.  
  
The intercom buzzed, interrupted his musings. "Sir, there are four beings approaching from the southeast."  
  
Logan stirred. "Rogue," he breathed. Slowly the drug was wearing off, and even in this dark sterile place, he knew what home felt like.   
  
Riley looked down at him, and smiled slowly. "Put up a fight," he instructed the guard over the 'com. "Keep three detained, but---" He broke off and turned to Logan. "What does your Rogue look like, Logan?"  
  
"Brown hair. Green eyes---bright. White streak in her hair."  
  
"---let the green-eyed girl with the white streak in her hair make her way to us," Riley finished. He grinned down at his victim. "Your friends are coming, Logan."  
  
"Yes," said Logan, and by this time the truth drug had worn off enough so that he kept his voice purposefully unconcerned. Wouldn't do for Riley-boy here to give him anymore of that stuff; let him believe it was still working.  
  
Of course, he didn't think that ruse would last long, but he also knew the abilities of the people he was proud to call friends, and hopefully they wouldn't take long in finding him.  
  
'Hopefully' being the key word.  
  
  
  
Rogue fought without thinking much about it. Her acquired strength still sent a thrill through her bones, but she hardly noticed it; she didn't even blink when a bullet grazed her elbow. All she could think about was getting to Logan, and so she didn't even realize that the guards were practically ignoring her, compared to the attention they gave her companions. And the other three were so busy staying alive that they didn't notice, either.  
  
It wasn't until Rogue stopped outside the door, the door she knew led to him, that she saw she had reached it alone.  
  
But the others weren't dead, of that she was certain, so it was alright. They'd catch up.  
  
She pushed open the door.  
  
  
  
"Get out!" Logan shouted the second he detected her scent, like silk against his senses. "It's a trap!" But no sooner had the words left his lips than he was clubbed on the head by Riley.  
  
When he came to, he saw Rogue and Riley locked in a struggle. He smelled blood, her blood, but his panic subsided as he watched the short tussle. The man didn't have a chance against her strength, though he had no idea where it came from. Riley was thrown against the wall like a child's doll, and crumpled to the ground much as a doll would have.  
  
Rogue darted to Logan's side, and he smiled woozily up at her, still dazed. "Hey baby."  
  
She pursed her lips in a most adorable way, looking at his bonds. "Hold still," she ordered, as if he could do something other than obey, and began slicing at the tough leather. Using a knife that, she was horrified to see, was already wet with Logan's blood, Rogue got his arms free and he put his claws to work at demolishing the rest of the straps. He tried to stand up, but here his strength failed, and he fell heavily to the ground.  
  
Rogue felt her heart twist within her breast. "Oh, Logan, Logan," she whispered, running her gloved hands over his trembling arms, his sliced chest, his bruised face.  
  
*So gentle*, he thought, *so sweet . . .* "My girl, my Rogue, I'm so sorry I hurt you."  
  
He didn't realize he had spoken the words aloud until she held a finger to his lips. "Hush, we'll talk about that later, we have to get you out of here . . ." Grunting with the effort, for he wasn't much more than dead weight at this point, she hefted Logan to his feet.  
  
Neither of them saw Riley rise behind them, neither of them saw the insane fire in his eyes, neither of them saw him pull the hand grenade from his jacket pocket. But Logan heard the metal pin hit the ground, and he turned his heavy head to watch Riley lift an arm, seemingly very slow, and suddenly all the agony and tiredness flowed out of his body in time for one fearful burst of adrenaline, and he hurled Rogue out the door, and threw himself atop her prone body.  
  
  
  
Scott was nearly shaken off his feet from the explosion, and Jean gasped. Their attackers hesitated, wondering what had gone wrong in this flawless plan. Perhaps they instinctively knew of the death of the one who had held dominion over their minds for years.  
  
In any case, the X-Men were able to strike blows to each head---non-killing, as they preferred whenever possible, and exchanging a look, ran down the hall toward the sound.  
  
Storm called down a light rain, which filtered in through the hole the blast had torn through the roof. The fire hissed and sizzled, but slowly died down. And it was amidst the bulk of the debris that they saw them.  
  
Logan was blackened, burned, scarcely breathing . . . but alive just the same; his healing factor had kicked in just in time, though the wounds had not yet begun to close and might even leave considerable scars. He was mostly naked, clad only in a pair of white shorts, and Scott was alarmed to see him spread across Rogue. Her clothing had been damaged in the explosion, leaving bare skin along her stomach and arms to connect with Logan's, and her cheek rested just beneath his shoulder.  
  
Scott rushed forward to pull them apart, seeing Logan's skin take a frightening cast, but Jean placed a hand on his shoulder, and shook her head. The three of them watched, aghast, as Rogue's power began to suck what little life was left in Logan . . . and then stopped. His breath had been short, but now it came easier, and seemed to rise and fall in sync with hers.  
  
Somehow, some way, they were touching. He didn't understand how, but Scott understood the magnitude of what he was seeing.  
  
It was a shame to separate them to be carried back to the jet, but seeing as how they were both quite unconscious, neither complained.  
  
  
  
Logan fought a moment of panic at the feel of the medical room he was in as he woke up.  
  
But then he opened his eyes, and met Jean's concerned gaze, and relaxed with a sigh.  
  
She smiled. "I can't believe I had to patch you up again. I think Scott's jealous of the intimate time we've spent together."  
  
Yawning enormously, he replied, "Considering that I'm usually asleep, he don't have much to be jealous of, darlin'."  
  
Carefully sitting up, he found that it was possible, and even fairly simple. There were scars on his chest, but they had the faded look of ones that had been there for many years. Nothing was bleeding, so that was good, anyway.  
  
"Here," Jean said, tossing him some sweatpants and a shirt.   
  
"Getting modest on me?" Logan asked with a grin.  
  
She shook her head wryly. "You know, I think you're better company when you're knocked out."  
  
"But then I couldn't do this," he said good-naturedly, leaning over to give her a kiss on the cheek. Jean pushed him gently away, laughing.  
  
She turned sober quickly. "You know what they wanted with you, those people in Canada?"  
  
"Yes. They were controlled by a dork who wanted to be a mutant, so he tried to cut me open and see how my metal insides work."  
  
Frowning, Jean cocked her head. "But the operation only worked on you because of your healing abilities. A normal human wouldn't survive the process."  
  
"Yeah, well, if I'da told him that, I doubt I'd be here having this conversation," Logan replied.  
  
"Good point," Jean admitted, then fell silent. She looked down at her lap. "Do you remember what happened when the bomb went off?"  
  
"A grenade," he corrected. "I saw him get ready to throw it, and my only thought was to protect her, so I threw myself over her."  
  
"You saved her life, you know. She would have died otherwise."  
  
"I know I did. That was kind of the point."  
  
She nodded. "Okay. And do you know what happened when you passed out?"  
  
Logan hesitated, running a hand through his hair. "I---I had this stupid dream."  
  
"What was it?" Jean prompted.  
  
"I dreamt that as I was protecting her, Rogue woke up, and touched my face, without her gloves on. And I didn't die from it."  
  
"You were partially right; she did touch you, and you did survive."  
  
Logan could do nothing but stare. "But . . . what---how?"  
  
Jean sighed. "I've talked it over with the professor, and we think that perhaps your healing ability sort of allowed you to . . . adapt to her mutation. It doesn't seem to affect you anymore, though the tests we ran showed that her touch is still harmful to everyone else. And the samples of the drugs Riley was using were destroyed in the blast, so we don't know if they might have had some permanent effect on your bloodstream, or your immune system . . ." She trailed off as she saw that he was grinning at her.  
  
"Don't know, do you?"  
  
"No," she admitted sheepishly. "We really haven't a clue."  
  
And Logan said, "I'll be damned," and began to laugh. For an instant she thought that maybe he had been hit in the head by that crazy man one too many times.  
  
"Logan . . ."  
  
He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "It's true what they say, Jeannie---third time's the charm!"  
  
Then he made her direct him to Rogue's room. Logan sat by her side until her eyelids began to flutter in waking, and he kissed her, and she tasted better than any fairy tale princess.   
  
  
  
  
Author's Note: If you liked it, review! If you didn't like it, review! If you liked it, review! If you didn't . . . how long must I continue with my imitation of a broken record? You get the picture!  
  
  
  
  



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